


All Dead, All Dead

by circuit_breaker



Category: Shadowrun: Hong Kong
Genre: Gen, Potential Spoilers, hints of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 13:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10663353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circuit_breaker/pseuds/circuit_breaker





	All Dead, All Dead

Another successful run. The idea of gaining extra cash makes me whistle in satisfaction, a song, a joyous tune whose name I cannot remember. I press a towel against Koschei’s blood-stained blades.

You come down. Probably to ask my opinions on the run – you always do so. I know that you are capable of many splendid surprises, but you do have your own set of patterns.

“Good evening, my friend. What’s on your mind?” I ask.

You do not say anything. Unusual. I turn my head to look at you, to make sure that I am talking to the correct individual. You stand a few meters away and stare at me with a serious expression.

“Racter”, you start. I wait to hear what’s coming next. Koschei is hiding beneath the desk. Do you see him? He would be ready to make a lethal jump at you if you made a wrong move, and you do not even give a glance at his direction. I take a long inhale of smoke.

“I murdered them, didn’t I?” you continue finally, after which Koschei’s posture relaxes. Considering our line of work, your question is a bizarre one, though.

“Why, of course you did”, I say. “You did a clean and professional job with cutting the throats of those thugs–“

“I am **not** talking of the last run, Racter”, you cut in. You sound angry. “It has been a year since… _They_ died.”

Oh.

“It was my decision to accept the offer of Qian Ya”, you say, now with a softer, sadder tone. Your lower lip quivers. “And, because of it, they are gone. Duncan, Raymond, Gobbet, Is0bel.”

I regard you in silence. I do not even attempt to make an immediate response: you most likely even prefer having some time to ruminate your own words.

It dawns on me that you are going through a psychological breakdown. You haven’t talked of them ever since that night. Neither have I – to be more precise, I haven’t even thought about them.

I’m used to change, or, rather, I do not hold any intrinsic value in things staying the same. Say: I did consider Gobbet, Is0bel and Gunshow experts in their own fields. They served their functions and roles well. But, but – they weren’t particularly special nor irreplaceable. I didn’t receive the pleasure of knowing Mr. Black better, but even the greatest minds are rarely unique: inventions need only the right time and place and an underlying mass of knowledge; they pop like bubbles, up, up, up, here and there, all around the globe, in the collective consciousness of mankind.

You break the train of my thought.

“Qian Ya promised us years of supernatural fortune. Fortune – yes, we have indeed succeeded in every mission we have had. However, is fortune about being successful or being happy?” you ask.

“For me, success _is_ happiness”, I comment.

“Perhaps. I, for one, am not happy”, you say and frown. “What is the point of living on if one isn’t happy, Racter?”

I blow smoke out of my mouth. I drop the cigarette and press it against the floor with my shoe.

Now, this discussion is flowing towards undesired waters. I _am_ used to people changing, but that doesn’t mean that I’d like to toss useful assets into the mincer. It isn’t a lie that you are an exceptionally useful asset, too.

Besides, I doubt that Gaichu would appreciate me presenting you as a food supplement.

“Would you like to sit down?” I suggest. I take a hold of your hand. You do not protest when I lead you to a seat. After that, I rummage through my drawers: an electric kettle, water.

Koschei sends me signals that you are looking at me, at my turned back and the drawers that I open. The water boils while I search for some tea and a couple of mugs.

“I have a feeling that I should… _Apologize_ ”, I say.

“… For what?” you ask.

“For not realizing it sooner. You have been struggling with feeling guilty all this time, haven’t you? Yet, you have pushed through the days, keeping up an unbreakable façade.”

You do not answer. I pour the tea and pass you one of the mugs.

“As you know, my condition affects my social relationships. I may miss some signs”, I say, sit down. “I can understand that you’d feel that way, though. Theoretically speaking. Gunshow – I mean, _Duncan_ – was like a brother to you, yes?”

“He was”, you confirm.

“Mister Black, in turn, raised you two. A father figure of sorts.”

“That is true.”

“As for Is0bel and Gobbet… You didn’t know them for very long, but you probably grew to consider them your friends”, I continue.

“They were far too young to die”, you comment.

“Maybe. In any case, all of them were old enough to take responsibility for their decisions. You accepted the offer, and they, in turn, rejected it. They also started the fight. They turned the whole situation into a matter of life and death among comrades. What we did was pure self-defense, plain and simple.”

Your breathing sways the warm steam coming out of the tea.

“It may be as you say”, you reply after contemplating awhile. “But it doesn’t change the fact that they are gone.”

“Yes, it doesn't. They are gone, and they will never come back”, I say. “They won’t come back even if you used the rest of your life to regret. Your death wouldn’t change the past, either; it would only make their deaths meaningless.”

You break eye-contact with me.

“Meaningless, you say”, you murmur. “What would be meaningful, in this world?”

“That would be a fundamental question of philosophy, my friend. In fact, your comment would go into the category of nihilism. A trending and somehow interesting point of view, albeit a highly unconstructive one. Personally, I believe that the meaning is to eliminate and to create – to focus on the future, on the possibilities of what could be”, I say.

You look at me with a particular gaze.

“My intention isn’t to turn this discussion towards post-humanistic future, so you needn’t give me _that_ look”, I add with a chuckle. “I would appreciate it if you took steps towards that direction, but – as for now, I suppose that any steps, even smaller ones, will do.”

I sip some tea.

“What would you suggest, then?” you ask.

“Bury the dead. You never gave yourself a chance to mourn and let it all out, am I correct? And because of that, you have trouble with moving on. Cry. Wail. Damn the past. Break a chair. But, continue living.”

You stare at me with blank eyes. Then, your fingers tremble; the mug slips, falls, crashes against the metallic floor and turns into millions of shards; the water splashes all over; and you lunge at me, your arms wrap around my sides and you cling to me and cry.

I am – baffled, to say the least. Your movements were so quick that Koschei almost assaulted you to protect me. If I hadn’t stopped him in time, I would be holding shreds of bloody flesh and gore in my embrace right now.

But you do not need to know that.

Your head presses against my chest. Tears push through the fabric of my shirt. Your arms, like pliers, keep me in a strong hold, and your fingers claw into my back. Not the most comfortable position to be in, but I’ll manage.

I place my arms over your shoulders. Pat your head, your hair, your puffy and a bit tangled hair. That’s what they usually do in a similar situation, I recall. Your sobs crack. Your breathing hitches, wheezes, turns into a desperate, muffled howl.

This goes on until your throat cannot keep on going anymore, until you have no more tears to waste, until you have vomited your heart out. Your hold of me softens, but you do not let go yet. I stay still. I wait for you to make the move.

“It’s going to be all right”, I say.

It is.

Once I get inside your head and tweak a couple of things, it is going to be.


End file.
